hope will put the colors in the sky
by brickroad16
Summary: Merlin has ideas about Morgana's future.


**Title**: hope will put the colors in the sky  
><strong>Author<strong>: brickroad16/inafadinglight  
><strong>Rating<strong>: PG/K+  
><strong>CharactersPairing**: Merlin/Morgana  
><strong>Spoilers<strong>: For S4, especially 4.13  
><strong>Summary<strong>: Merlin has ideas about Morgana's future.  
><strong>Disclaimer<strong>: I don't own Merlin. Lyrics are from Matt Nathanson's "Love Comes Tumbling Down," which I don't own either. Nothing's mine.  
><strong>AN**: This popped into my head while rewatching 4.02 tonight. It was supposed to be fluffier, but I think it turned out all right. As always, please don't favorite without leaving a review. Then I don't know why you favorited it!

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><p><em>hope, hope<em>  
><em>will put the colors in the sky<em>  
><em>hope, hope<em>  
><em>we'll set this world of wrong to right, to right<em>  
><em>- "Love Comes Tumbling Down," Matt Nathanson<em>

"No, it's, it's more guttural. From down here," he insists, pressing a palm to her stomach, fingers splayed.

Giggling uncontrollably, like a little girl, she rolls onto her back and throws an arm over her eyes. She's sure she's blushing violently, mortified at what he can do to her with just one touch.

"Just try it again," he laughs.

When she takes her arm away and opens her eyes, he's leaning over her, sunlight gleaming in his dark hair. He licks his lips, dry and cracked from the summer sun, and her heartbeat quickens at the memory of those lips against hers.

She stops that thought. They shouldn't be doing this. She shouldn't be with him at all. They're _enemies_. She's never hated anyone like she's hated him.

And yet she's never longed to be close to anyone like she longs to be close to him, longs for the sound of his voice in her ear, longs for the ghost of his hands on her body.

"I can't," she protests.

His absurd idea is that the dragon – Aithusa's his name (Light of the Sun, it means, which is just so _Merlin_) – bestowed some sort of power on her when he breathed life back into her. He thinks she's a Dragonlord now. A Dragonlady? If he's right, which, however much she hates to admit it, he usually is, she could help to restore the race of Dragonlords. If he's right, she may have a new destiny, one that involves helping her people, which is what she's wanted all along. But also one that could possibly take away the knife that's been buried in her heart for so long, especially if it means being around him.

He nods, smiling. "Yes, you can. Just try. Concentrate."

"Okay, fine. Don't laugh."

"I'm not gonna laugh."

He leans back a little to give her some room, enough for her to see the sky above them, bright blue poking between the leaves.

His face flickers in her mind as she sucks in a deep, cleansing breath, feeling her chest puff up with air, closes her eyes, and cries, "Oh, dragon! I summon thee!" She opens one eye to peer at him. He's holding in laughter, but it bursts out when she sits up and pushes him in the shoulder. "What?" she demands.

"That was still . . . Well, I could understand you, and it wasn't because I'm a great, mystical Dragonlord or anything."

"You said all I had to do was speak."

He holds his hands up in defense. "I didn't exactly get a manual, you know. I said you had to concentrate. Did you concentrate? You've got to picture Aithusa in your mind."

She frowns. No. She wasn't thinking about the dragon at all. She was thinking about the idiot sitting beside her, teasing her with magic lessons when he should be apologizing in that very sweet, persuasive way he has.

He shrugs, and flicks a tuft of grass at her. "You'll get it. Just need practice is all."

"How do you know I will? What if you're wrong about all of this?"

He pulls his knees in and wraps his arms around them. He looks out at the tumbling meadow in front of them, squinting against the afternoon light. With a sigh, he says, "Because there has to be more to all of this."

And what she thinks he means is: _Because Aithusa brought us together again, and if that doesn't mean anything then there's no point to anything anymore_.

"I used to think there was sense in life, that we each had a destiny to fulfill. Now I'm not so sure."

He turns his gaze to her, eyes heavy with sadness, or regret maybe. Softly, he says, "Maybe destiny's one of those things we never really figure out until we've lived it already." When she looks away, he adds, "You will find your path again, Morgana. I know it."

All she can think is: _Does it lie with you?_

She lies back on the grass, all sense of frivolity drained out of her. They've stayed away from talk of the past, talk of his betrayal, of her twisted hatred. And they've never spoken of the future, not until this day, and the choice seems to loom before her, haunting her waking hours. She no longer has the will or the strength to fight, and yet she cannot go back to Camelot, not after what she's done. She must find another way. Which means it's coming closer, the day when she will have to leave him, for she cannot stay by him, not when they have so much history, not when their fire could consume the world.

But for now, all she wants to do is drink him in.

He sidles beside her and then gently positions himself over her, chest to chest. She swallows thickly, breathing in his earthy scent, and reaches up a hand to thread her fingers into his hair.

His piercing blue eyes are deep, so unfathomable she's afraid she'll lose herself, lose sight of everything that's come before and everything that will come to be.

He presses a tender kiss to her lips.

"I will not abandon you again," he murmurs, voice low and serious, lips brushing against hers. "You have my word."

A tremor shudders through her heart, a warning against the fire and fuel they seem to be to each other, devouring with each touch.

But she's sick to death of warnings, of so-called prophecies. She wants to open her heart. All hope needs is the tiniest window, and the nourishment of a gentle caress, a whispered word, a sweet kiss.


End file.
